


a ghost by any other name

by alaynes



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, Temporary Character Death, because they're not QUITE enemies, but on purpose. let's call it historical fiction?, no beta we die like the old guard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaynes/pseuds/alaynes
Summary: “I’m the Ghost."“You’re very good,” he granted, “but you’re not the Ghost. I am.”--Yusuf has been working as a spy for even longer than he has been dead, and he's grown a reputation for himself as The Ghost, a skilled spy and assassin who can do anything, even what seems impossible, even something that may kill others. When he hears of another spy who's been mistaken for him, at first he thinks nothing of it, until he hears why he's been mistaken for Yusuf—apparently, he rises from the dead too...
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	a ghost by any other name

**Author's Note:**

> AKA 2 spidermans pointing at each other meme
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't write homophobia as much as possible, so like. Suspend your disbelief. You'll know what I mean when you get there. Let's call it historical inaccuracies and leave it at that. Second! This is a very dramatic fictionalised history written by someone who has no Idea how spies actually work, so pls note that the fic (and Yusuf's opinions in the fic!) don't reflect on actual history at all, so much as what I think Yusuf might think living in a certain location at a certain time based on his, personal, experiences
> 
> Also also: all credit to @lgbtmazight on tumblr for the idea of Spy!Yusuf!!

It was an unfortunate day for deals to be made. Still and calm, with no wind nor rain to drown out your words, too cold for crowds in which to lose yourself, and too bright for the possibility of your face going unseen. Were Yusuf a man to make secret deals with men of questionable reliability, he would not choose such a day. He would choose one in which he might disappear amidst a hundred men, or in torrential downpour, or perhaps in the stealth of night. 

Unfortunately, Abul-Hassan of Al-Iskandariya, messenger for the Sultan of Egypt, did not have the time or freedom to plan his rendezvouses at leisure of wind and weather. He was in Kabes for half a day only, a short reprieve while his men supplied their party for the important business of transporting copies of texts to a library in Balinsiya. Mahdia and Tunus had closed their ports to ships from Egypt after its latest troubles, and so his party would be taking the road through these cities, paying for passage at every inn and toll stop and gate. Unfortunately for _him_ , that was; Yusuf found it fortunate, as his skills, though significant, did not extend his hearing nor sight. The cities of Mahdia and Tunus, Yusuf supposed, also found it very fortunate.

The bright sun and the half-empty streets had happily allowed Yusuf to follow Abul-Hassan through the city, from the docks to the resthouse where he met Nasir of Marrakesh, who, though merely a trader himself, very likely knew a man who knew a man who would have the ear of his Khalif, or perhaps the Governor of Mahdia. Perhaps more importantly, Nasir had passage for himself upon a ship that was set to make port in Mahdia a mere five days from now.

“There is little trust or friendship between them, as you know,” Nasir was saying. He was a practical-sounding man, as befitted any trader who wished to make a profit. “Few in this land are happy with the Fatimiyah. There were those that celebrated its losses and do so even now, when the time that Mahdia or Kairouan were in Fatimid hands is no longer in living memory.”

Abul-Hassan made a noise of great frustration. “Why do you not see that this is greater than my empire or yours? The aid we ask for is central to the protection of our lands against further conquest by the Frankish invaders. Do you not call yourselves the Unifiers? Surely you understand the importance of unity in such a time.”

Yusuf ducked further under the cloth covering him until his vision was more than half blanket, shaking his head. Nasir must be doing the same, he supposed, for he said, “Will the Fatimiyah then follow the true path? We are divided by more than the borders of two kingdoms, as you well know. Besides, word is not so slow to travel that we do not know what your Khalif did four years ago. Such betrayals are not easy to forget.”

Abul-Hassan was growing increasingly frustrated. “We have realised our errors,” he said, a whine of insistence creeping into his tone. “He has realigned himself with the very man he had once betrayed. If that Sultan has forgiven his transgression and come to—”

“Surely that _forgiveness_ was not without great recompense of some sort, no? You cannot tell me—”

“ _Yes_ , but we are offering recompense here as well!” At this, Nasir quieted and raised his brows, as if to say, _I am listening_. Of course he was; this was, after all, very likely what he had been waiting for. “I am permitted to offer certain great concessions in terms of trade and taxation. Your merchants will find no market more open to them than our own.”

“Is this what you call recompense? My travels have taken me through your land and I have seen its state. You ask our men to die for that land, with such little likelihood of success, and offer only this? Come, my old friend. What you ask for is impossible with this paltry offer.”

“Wait, wait. You misunderstand me. This is only the first guarantee that I extend—there will, of course, be more. We are willing to negotiate. I am only asking, for now, that you extend word of our need. Success—success is sure to follow, is it not, when we collect our forces?” Even to Yusuf, Abul-Hassan reeked of desperation. Nasir had not looked less interested since he first entered the resthouse, but Yusuf could see the growing satisfaction in him, as Abul-Hassan agreed, effectively, to negotiate on Nasir’s terms. “If nothing else, I believe that the invasion of Siciliya _is_ in living memory still. We have a common enemy. Let us fight it together.”

Yusuf shook his head as Nasir stood, nodding to Abul-Hassan to take his leave. “It shall be done. I have a man in Mahdia who can speak to the governor, the men with voices. But remember—we shall expect that the promises you make are not broken.”

“Have no doubt about it. My own journey takes me further west, but I shall eagerly await word of our mutual success. And—remember. Time is everything now.”

Yusuf waited until both men were clearly gone from the inn before rising, rearranged his blanket so it was less conspicuously wrapped around him, and began to follow Nasir. His route was not one of a followed man—perhaps he was new to this? Or perhaps he was an old hand, overconfident in his abilities—but the street was empty enough that following him was no easy task. The market streets of Kabes were beautiful but near-empty, and Nasir seemed to take this as an opportunity to explore the wares on sale without the crowds of the day. Yusuf quirked a lip as the man hovered by a shop selling weights and began flirting with the woman running it.

It was almost a shame when he left, and turned so his route would take him due east, past the walls of the city and out to the port. 

Yusuf took a moment before following, silent and purposeful, until Nasir was past the market and quickly approaching the outer walls. Nasir’s death must be quiet, secret, and timed in a way that news of it did not reach Abul-Hassan, lest he attempt to reach other contacts. He had been right; time _was_ everything, and once his men left the city of Kabes, there would be nothing he could do, even if news somehow reached him on the road. His task would be impossible to complete. If, however, he discovered that Nasir was dead, and made contact with a new man in the few hours he had left in the city—well, Yusuf rather wanted those texts he carried to make it to their destination in peace, and that would no longer be possible then. 

Nasir boarded his ship with the cheer of a man with no idea he was being followed. Shortly after he disappeared aboard the vessel, another man, with a look of purpose, left the ship. Yusuf weighed his chances. He had spoken to the port authorities in the morning, and the vessel Nasir was aboard was not scheduled to leave until the next morning. He knew where it was, and where it would remain—better, then, to ensure Abul Hassan had left the city first.

Decided, he followed this new man, likely a messenger or one of Abul Hassan’s party, back into the city once more. This man was a little more difficult to follow; he took some attempts at evasive action, though not with the skill of one truly accustomed to such work, rather one entertaining oneself with the idea of being a spy; perhaps thinking of the glamour of it, of being followed, of keeping an eye on all those around him, on shaking off captors and deceiving men cleverer than him. Yusuf, for himself, had always found spying a rather dull job, dependent more on routine and regularity than any exciting adventures. 

_Not that_ this _was much better_ , he sighed when the man finally reached his party. 

Yusuf had been right; it was Abul Hassan and his men. They had gathered at another inn near the northwestern gate, and were busy lading pack animals with carts and containers. Yusuf settled upon a hidden spot in the walls to watch. They were a party of six, and though two of the men looked to be guards, they had no animals to ride. Their numbers and their supplies, would undoubtedly slow them down, making it glaringly unlikely that they would reach Kairouan—the first city in their path—in less than three weeks.

That would be ideal.

Yusuf waited for their packs to leave the city, watching the nervous energy around Abul Hassan—and likely around himself—dissipate as they finally began their journey out, perhaps wishing to make the most of their remaining daylight hours. 

Once their party disappeared on the horizon, Yusuf loped back on the walls, not bothering to climb down until he was at the port once again. 

It was evening—bitterly cold, the disappearing sun taking with it all traces of the heat it brought—by the time Yusuf deemed the timing appropriate. He followed his sunset prayers with an apology, as he always did, and descended the walls, slipping aboard the ship while the night itself was occupied, and none stood to watch. 

[ ](https://eagle--two.tumblr.com/post/643234041298075648/art-for-a-ghost-by-any-other-name)

The ship was built like any other, with a few chambers above deck for their passengers, and supplies and oars below. Nasir was not difficult to find; the ship was near empty now, the night before it took sail, and light only gleamed from the cracks in the door of a single occupied chamber. He pushed the door open.

It took no more than two minutes. Nasir was surprised he had been followed—new, Yusuf decided—and began to shout, but Yusuf muffled his mouth with the palm of his hand. He was not a man accustomed to fighting, either; he struggled to gain a hold of the arm around his face and neck, and only remembering to go for the dagger at his waist when it was too late. The snap of the bones of his neck were the loudest thing in the night, but Yusuf knew that was only to his ears. 

Yusuf stood, straightening the dead man’s neck and closing his eyes. He reached for his pack, going through the items within until he found a small bundle of rolled and tied paper. He untied it to check its contents, and sure enough, the missive read that it came from Egypt. Retying the bundle, he put that and all other papers in the bundle away in his inner pocket, and scattered the other items within the bundle on the ground, as though they had been shuffled around by a thief.

Finally, he took Nasir’s dagger, and sliced his own palm with it. Wincing, he pressed the blood to his neck, until his hair and neck and tunic were unmistakably bloody, and the wood of the table below was coloured red as well. Yusuf’s healing came faster and faster of late; it must have been less than a minute before it was healed entirely, nothing there to indicate he had been injured. He wiped the remaining blood from his hand with the cloth, and buried the dagger in Nasir’s neck. 

* * *

They called him the Ghost of Fustat.

At one time the title had grated, as Yusuf was not of Egypt himself, and the moniker came not from any great achievement of his in the city, but from a _mistake_ he had made, years ago, when he had newly taken the step from being merely an informant to an active agent... so to speak.

It had not been a complicated task. He had been required by a minister in the Fustati court to make sure that a local merchant did not leave the city or receive any significant visitors for three days. If he _did_ receive visitors, particularly visitors carrying goods, Yusuf was to dispatch all parties, _unless_ the visitors were attempting to kill or injure his target—but all was to be done as discreetly as possible. The names of all involved eluded him now, nearly seventy years hence, but he could still remember the route to the merchant’s home, the various positions from which Yusuf had watched it for three days, making certain that none came nor left. But the merchant had neither left his home, nor attempted to greet any guests, and had seemed more paranoid than anything the one time Yusuf had seen him emerge from within to speak to his guards. 

The paranoia had been what led to Yusuf’s being discovered. A guard, overeager to please his master, had been watching his surroundings with a hawk’s gaze, and had caught Yusuf on a nearby terrace. The guards had chased him shortly, but Yusuf could not dwell too far from the merchant’s home, and so he had been caught in the end, and then killed and dragged to an alley. 

For all that the memory of the gaining of the title was not a particularly pleasant one, Yusuf _liked_ Fustat. He had spent years in it not long after he had died; for a while, he had even known his neighbours, and made friends, before he realised that he was not aging, and started to get comments. Even after leaving, though, his appreciation for it hadn’t faded. It was a grand city, with beauty and wealth that he enjoyed whenever he had the opportunity. 

Today, he found himself in the inner rooms of a delegate’s private home in the city. His contact, Qasim, seemed irritated with him, for no reason Yusuf could tell. “And you made certain to stop the correspondence?”

Yusuf nodded. “The Tunisian correspondent is dead, and the letter is with me. The scholar was making his slow way north; I followed his caravan a day to make sure of it. It will be weeks still before they arrive at Kairouan.” His own travels, by ship, had been much quicker.

“And our own correspondence?” Qasim asked, frowning.

“Delivered. I have your reply as well.” For all the differences between them, there was no doubt about the fact that the Syrians and the Tunisians had a common enemy; there had been little persuasion involved in convincing his contact in Mahdia of the advantages of this alliance, which did not _need_ anything from them, but only offered future benefits. Much the same as Qasim had convinced him, some time back.

“Well, where is it?” 

Yusuf frowned at Qasim, placing one hand over his inner pocket. “You’re acting strange, Qasim. You know perfectly well that I have not failed you before.” Nor anyone, really. Though the details of his errands were always private knowledge, it was, at least, fairly well known that Yusuf—the Ghost—did not fail his employers. He removed the wrapped bundles from his pocket, and showed Qasim the items, one after the other. 

Qasim relaxed visibly. “It isn’t your skill I was doubting,” he said, and removed a pouch hung on his swordbelt. “There has been talk of the Ghost in Al-Karak, very far from where you should have been.”

Yusuf shook his head, fixing his eyes on the coin within the pouch. His eyes, he had been told, tended to give him away when he lied—which perhaps made him a very poor liar, as they were the only part of his face he kept uncovered. “You know as well as I that I have had many miracles attributed to me that I could not possibly have done.” Though he _had_ , for the most part, done those things. He shrugged and hung the pouch from his belt, then handed Qasim the letters. “What was this Ghost doing, then, that you believed I was dishonouring our arrangement?”

Qasim unrolled the first letter. “Delaying the King of Jerusalem from attacking, it seems. Interfering with supply trains, starting a small fire in his camp. We would not have assumed it to be your work, of course, but the Ghost—the man was shot down, according to rumour. And then seen again in a few days.”

“Two men, then,” Yusuf said with a little more confidence than he felt. “That could be the work of anyone, my friend, and you know it. Few are happy with the gathering of those armies, even those of us who do not care for Egypt’s Sultan.”

Qasim looked up at Yusuf, and said, “But how many of these men can achieve what you can?” 

Yusuf paused, but Qasim did not seem _too_ concerned with the depth of Yusuf’s skills. “Perhaps it was ten men.” Qasim laughed, whatever concern he had had apparently melted away with proof that Yusuf had in fact been doing what he was paid to do. 

“Perhaps, Shabah, perhaps.” Qasim rose, apparently done for the day. “Well, I, or someone, will be in contact with you if necessary. Tashfin is riding eastward, though he is likely to return before the turn of the year, if _you_ have need. And of course, you have the thanks of the Amir.”

Yusuf smiled, though Qasim would not be able to see it through the wrappings on his face, and rose to leave. “You know how to find me,” he said, and made his exit. 

* * *

Whenever possible, Yusuf preferred to avoid any kind of combat. 

This was not because he would _lose_. It was literally impossible for him to lose, and with each time that he completed what should have been an impossible goal, his reputation was further solidified as a spy who could not be killed. But he wasn’t a fighter by choice—or taste—not when he didn’t need to be, and he hated the confusion that followed when someone saw him take a fatal blow and keep moving; or worse, literally rise from the dead. Particularly when it was several people—he may be the Ghost, but if word got around that that wasn’t simply a clever title, he would not be a free or working man for very long.

Case in point:

One of the guards of the fort near Haifa backed away, the terror of having seen flesh heal before his eyes bare on his face. The first two attempts to move his mouth didn’t _quite_ work. “D—demon!” he stuttered out finally... but not loud enough for anyone to have heard. Yusuf moved forward, pressing his lips together, but the guard was apparently too terrified to fight _now_. Yusuf took pity on him, and brought the flat of his sword down on the man’s head, knocking him out. 

He wiped the end of his blade on the man’s tunic, before tucking it away, and looking down at his chest. The bare skin of his shoulder gaped through the tear, but there was nothing for it. He would simply have to wait until it was possible for him to mend it; for now, he had work to do.

Yusuf kept to the corners, avoiding the torchlight as much as possible, looking left and right at every turning, but no other guards came in his path at this time of night. He had inside information—well, he had been here before, which must count—and had a rough idea of where to go. When he reached the upper floor, he paused. There _really_ should have been more guards around, particularly if the information he was after was as important as his employer had indicated.

And yet, even as he approached the doors... nothing.

A hint of movement, there, to the left—Yusuf turned, but there was no one. Follow, or see to his task first? He paused for a moment, two, frowning in the direction of the motion. Nothing but the flickering of torchlight, even its shadows unimpeded.

He turned to the doors that should lead to the meeting room, and pushed them open to find a room ransacked. Two guards lay on the ground, backs to each other, tied up and clearly unconscious; a third lay behind the desk as he approached it. The shelves had been emptied; dozens of books and papers lay on the ground, though if Yusuf had to guess—

he turned and ran.

He must have missed him by seconds, but seconds was enough to one with training and experience; even as he ran down the stairs, he could see movement beyond the windows, someone disappearing into the hills. Cursing under his breath, Yusuf followed, forgoing silence for speed now that he _knew_ the guards were gone for a reason. He ran past the outer guard, still unconscious, and chased.

The headstart the man had would have given him an advantage against anyone else. But Yusuf had been doing this since before his rival was born.

He caught up with him in minutes, just as they were out of sight of the fort—or maybe the man let him catch him. He was dressed entirely in black, as Yusuf was, but when he turned, the thin moonlight marked his skin pale in contrast. A crossbow rested on his back, but it was a sword in his hands when he turned around, broad and heavy. 

Yusuf tightened his grip on his own sword, and lunged first. 

The man’s sword was two-handed, and undoubtedly heavy, but he didn’t seem weighed down by it, nor the weapon on his back. The screech of steel against steel ended with Yusuf being pushed away, shoulder twinging for a moment before he turned to face him again, just in time to dodge a blow himself. This time, they were caught with Yusuf on the defensive, one foot behind himself keeping him firmly in place. 

“Who is your employer?” he ground out, before the other man was forced to either pull away, or slip, their swords screeching each other. The man steadied himself in a moment, no flourish or grace, only a skilled economy of motion. “ _Who_ wants those papers?”

He didn’t respond, only attempting a strike to Yusuf’s side, which Yusuf dodged and returned with a cut to his shoulder. The next blow came to his legs; Yusuf hissed as the cut formed—but even as the man pulled away his sword to take more fatal aim, his legs had healed, pain vanishing, and Yusuf was aiming his own sword at the man’s chest. Another successful blow to his side, though not with the blade but the flat of the broadsword; another blow returned, which barely slowed his opponent.

They clashed a third time. “Who are you?” Yusuf asked, a touch out of breath. They certainly hadn’t met before, and while that was not _impossible_ , how had he not heard of a man with this skill before? There were few spies in the region who could hold their own against Yusuf. This man was trained—or, at least, experienced, but he was not fighting like a mere soldier. A scarf, wound around his head in the same manner as Yusuf’s own, disguised the rest of his features, but his eyes—watery pale in the moonlight, but with the glaring intensity of staring into the sun—were familiar and unfamiliar at once.

[ ](https://eagle--two.tumblr.com/post/643234041298075648/art-for-a-ghost-by-any-other-name)

Their swords parted. Yusuf turned to steady himself, sending a swipe towards the man’s feet—

—and stopped a moment after, a piercing pain in his side. When he glanced down, a dagger he hadn’t noticed earlier sat buried between his ribs.

The man pulled the dagger out, and Yusuf groaned at the obnoxious spray of blood that followed, sinking to his knees. Above him, the man looked grim and unhappy. “I’m the Ghost,” he said, just as Yusuf’s vision faded to nothing.

When he came back to life, he was distinctly aware of where he was. He hadn’t been abandoned just yet; the man before him occupied in cleaning his sword, back to him. Yusuf glared at him for a moment as his skin rejoined and cracked ribs repaired. _The Ghost_. It was interesting fortune, for the very impostor Yusuf had heard of not two weeks prior, to meet him like this. He had assumed it was simply people assuming that whatever this man—or perhaps a group—had achieved was Yusuf’s work, but apparently not. Was it bravado that had make him take the name of an established agent, or foolishness?

It suited him, Yusuf supposed, more than it did himself. He was pale even in the darkness, and his eyes—if Yusuf believed in ghosts anymore, he would think _this_ was what one should look like. 

Still. There could only be one of him. 

He tossed his sword into his hand, catching it in a perfect grip, and rose to his feet as the Ghost—as the impostor—began to turn, and smiled when he faltered. “You’re very good,” he granted, “but you’re not the Ghost. I am.”

And he slashed at his chest.

* * *

That morning, he dreamed.

The dream was not entirely unfamiliar, neither in the feeling it elicited—the sense of direction, that call north, closer than it should be, the urgent hum through his mind—nor _entirely_ in its content. The early morning sun gleamed over the metal of a crossbow, illuminating a broad shoulder. A tunic, fabric seeming darker than black, wrapped around a pale face. A pair of eyes, almost green in the pale morning light, stared down at something unseen. 

When he woke up, it was bright enough to be nearing noon, and through the walls of the room he had paid for, the ambient noises of the city crept through. Yusuf groaned, stretching his arms out before turning them under his head to stare at the ceiling. 

These dreams were not rare; they came perhaps once or twice in a moon’s turn, just vague and urgent enough for him to know he was dreaming of the people like him—immortals. He had certainly dreamed of _this_ man before, too—but the eyes had never before tonight looked familiar.

He must be wrong. After all, what was the probability that he had met the other man, the _last_ known person with the same magical ability that he had, and in this way? That the only immortal he did not know had come across him at this time, with his own stolen name?

Yusuf had met two others like himself, Andromache and Quỳnh. Andromache was the oldest, older than their calendar, older than he had thought possible, even after learning of his immortality—Quỳnh far younger, but still ancient. They were warriors both, a hundred times more dangerous than anyone Yusuf had met. He was the third and youngest of those who shared his condition, but they all had dreamed at some time or other of a fourth. The last time he had run into Andromache and Quỳnh, they had told him they intended to find the man.

But it would not be this man. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him; first the mention of another Ghost, with the same skills as Yusuf had, and then this meeting—it had somehow tricked him into dreaming of the man, and imagining _him_ the last immortal, when he was likely no more than an ordinary spy. A spy Yusuf had killed. He had not dreamed of the other immortal in months; none of them knew what caused these dreams, really, but Yusuf had found that thinking of the other immortals tended to make the dreams more common. And he _had_ been thinking about it, so his mind, starved of company, had created something out of nothing. 

_But Haifa, where you left him, is to the North_. 

He shook his head, and rose for the day, rubbing a hand over his quick-growing beard. He had a caravan to join out of the city before sundown.

* * *

Kaysariya was one of the ports of the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem. He had seen its capture and devastation firsthand years ago, but he had also seen it return to a thriving town—if not quite as thriving as it may have been before—in the years that followed. His second mark was here; the freshly titled Lord John of Caesarea, an older general’s son who had been given lordship of the city for his father’s successes. Yusuf had watched for a day as he did nothing of any use, as his guards appeared and disappeared in their rotating shifts. It was only as the sun began to set and a guest arrived that he disappeared into an interior chamber, re-emerging an hour or so later, only to get thoroughly drunk with said guest.

Yusuf had followed the other man, old and dressed in finery, and entirely too drunk to even protest properly as Yusuf had briefly stopped him to search for hidden papers of some sort. They were not with him, so he assumed the plans he was interested in were still with John.

It was much the same as Haifa. He would sneak in in the middle of the night, when the guards on duty too would be halfway through their hours, and growing exhausted, if not complacent. It would be far easier with the open walls of the lord’s home,, and he had seen where he must go, too. In all, it should be short work, and he could return to his rooms to hide until it was the day for his ship to leave.

But as he landed below the easternmost wall, light on his feet, a great booming laugh met him. “The Ghost!” it announced, and Yusuf froze. “You must have thought us very foolish, to be unprepared when the news of your exploits in Haifa has reached us! Guards!”

Yusuf cursed under his breath. He was not often proven wrong in underestimating people, but he had not anticipated that the news would have arrived so quickly. It must have been because of the mess the other man had made, in rifling through all of the contents of that room, leaving at least three men unconscious. _Some Ghost._

He braced himself, but no guards came, and instead the sounds of the untenable armour the Frankish guards wore seemed to be going _away_ from him. Frowning, Yusuf rose to the balls of his feet, moving as silently as he could around the outer rooms—and came face to back with Lord John himself, standing victoriously over a man on his knees, five or six guards pointing their spears at their victim. “I had heard much of your reputation, you know; I expected this to be more difficult,” Lord John was saying. Yusuf raised an eyebrow at his back, and left him there ranting. He was still talking when Yusuf found the outer stairs, and _still_ talking when he reached the private chamber, unguarded because the guards had been summoned to the—other thief.

The remarkable thing was that another spy had once again chosen the same night as Yusuf to steal his papers. He should consider it a stroke of good fortune, perhaps, but he didn’t much trust in that where he was concerned. True coincidences were rare enough that you could never trust them. Perhaps he had been correct in his first assumption? That the other man calling himself the Ghost was one among a group of men who all were using the same title, _his_ title—or had they been mistakenly called as such, and the false Ghost had used it to attempt to intimidate Yusuf? 

He shook his head as he found a sheaf of parchment, rolled and tied, and placed in the bottom drawer of the innermost cabinet. He unrolled it quickly, running his eyes over the numbers. Kaysariya was surrounded by farms, and much of their produce was currently being directed away from the city. These numbers were very likely to leave little for the populace of the town, but what should he know? 

He folded the parchment and wrapped it in cloth before sliding it into his waistband, and leaving the room. Below, he could hear Lord John still speaking, words indistinct. 

He would have to thank the other thief somehow, if they did not kill him. He kept his step as light as possible as he went down the stairs and back to the walls—only to freeze as the ridiculous clash of armour met his ears. Shrill shouts from the lord of the house followed, before the thief appeared around the walls. Yusuf glanced between him and the cold night beyond. “Hey,” he hissed—the thief looked up, jumping back when he saw him. Yusuf offered his hand. “Come on!” The man had made his work very very easy; he may as well offer him a simple hand in return.

The thief hesitated for a moment only, before grabbing Yusuf’s hand, and climbing atop the walls himself, just as one guard appeared to see him. “There’s two of them!” a cry went up, and Yusuf rolled his eyes, and dropped to the other side.

They were on the side furthest away from the entrance—unless the guards intended to scale the walls in their obnoxious armour, which would likely only slow them down, they had a few seconds. He broke off into a run, the other man following, until the larger houses of the lord and churchmen and richer merchants had given way to the city main, and smaller streets began winding them left and right. The guards followed, making a racket that told him exactly how close they were at any given moment. The thief kept close by Yusuf, making no attempt to disappear on his own—but he was capable enough of keeping up with him, and was almost as silent as he himself was, so he couldn’t complain.

But Kaysariya had changed much in the years since Yusuf was last here, and the guards knew the town better.

As the clattering grew closer and torchlight began to appear from the corners around them, the thief pulled Yusuf into the space between two shops, and pressed a large hand to his mouth over the scarf that hid it. He was breathing heavily, sending the cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth flaring out and pulling in. From close by, he had a broad, familiar face, with a large nose and pale eyes, almost as pale as—

The light of a torch flooded their hidden crevice, and marked the thief’s eyes green and blue. Yusuf paused, and looked again at him. Black cloth hid his face and neck, as it did Yusuf’s own, but leather and metal peeked from over his back, forming the dim shape of a crossbow.

Yusuf froze. 

Footsteps grew louder, and louder still, and more torchlight flooded their corner. The False Ghost was as strained as he was, though Yusuf could not say if it was because he had just discovered another—another immortal, another like _himself_ —or if it was for fear of discovery. He swallowed against the False Ghost’s hand, and stayed as still as he may.

After a few moments, the guards disappeared.

The False Ghost tentatively lowered his hand from Yusuf’s mouth. “I killed you,” Yusuf whispered, pressing a hand to the man’s chest, where a great wound should be. But of course, there was nothing. There could not be, when he had left him with a mortal wound, or at least a wound large enough to leave him incapable of movement for weeks. When he should have been dead, or recovering, in a city miles away.

“I think you’ll find we killed each other,” the False Ghost replied, in the mildly accented Arabic he had called himself the Ghost with, before shooting a look out at the street. “I think we may leave now. I should thank you for the help earlier.”

Yusuf nodded, and waited for the other to leave first, the press of space between them making it difficult to slide out without pushing their bodies against each other. The handle of the dagger he had killed him with pressed against Yusuf’s side as he went. “Who are you working for?” he asked, once they were both out. 

“Who are _you_ working for?” he received in return. He glared at him, and the man stepped away, arms up. “I will not kill you, as you helped me this time.”

Yusuf narrowed his eyes. Perhaps what he meant was, _I will not kill you, because it would achieve nothing_. Another immortal; the last immortal. The man from his dreams. What was the likelihood? How old was he? How experienced? He called himself the Ghost, too; how had he come to steal Yusuf’s title? He wanted to ask each of these questions, but there were guards searching for them, and unless Yusuf was going to drag them into another hiding place, they would not have the time to discuss these things. And he was on a schedule. 

So he only nodded, and said, “And I will not kill you for now, as you helped me.” He would know how to find the man, after all, if he wanted. He had a feeling he would be thinking of him, and perhaps dreaming of him, for days yet.

The False Ghost—the Thief—nodded, and slipped into the darkness. 

It was only when he arrived at his rooms, and began to strip out of his clothing, that he realised the papers were gone.

* * *

The same difficulty of finding people in cities that allowed Yusuf to escape guards, also allowed the Thief to escape Yusuf. 

He should have expected it, really. He hoped, the first night, for a dream that would indicate his direction, but there was—as he might have expected, knowing his awful luck—nothing. After a day of combing through the city and finding no trace of him, Yusuf had no choice but to board the ship for Arish; even if he did not have all of what they had tasked him with finding, he had at least the maps he had stolen from Haifa, information he had been told of the urgency of.

After that, he would have to find the man—if nothing else, then to discover his employer, find who it was that wanted this same information. He would assume he was a spy for the Franks, but he had stolen _from_ them, and none of the men seemed to recognise his name. And the rumour of the Ghost Qasim had mentioned had spoken of a man interfering with the Frankish army. But Yusuf could not trust that to be true, or even about the same man. If he _was_ a spy for the Franks, it made it far more dangerous for him to wear Yusuf’s name; after all, whatever he did would mark the Ghost’s reputation.

Favourable winds brought him to Arish a day before he was due, and he spent his free hours in the most public places he could think of, exchanging gossip. Everyone seemed to have guessed at the likelihood of imminent attack, as all the local lords and generals were strengthening their walls. Naturally, nobody was happy about it, and blame was split between the Sultan, the enemies, and those who would not ally them. There was only one mention of himself—or maybe of the Impostor—in Haifa, though it was not a very complimentary one.

That was fine. Yusuf knew most people would never know the extent of the work he did, nor its effects—most days, neither could he. It was like watching the ocean for ripples made by a single stone, blooming out in all directions—but ripples were invisible underwater. He could feel the vibrations he caused, the alliances he helped make or break, the turning of tides in battles through information—he could not see what waves they would turn to, a hundred years from now. 

But unlike these men, he would live to see them. For better or for worse.

The man he had stolen the information for, Ishaq, was new to him. He had been—recommended, perhaps—by an older ally, and Yusuf trusted Rasad’s judgment well enough. He could only hope that Ishaq too trusted her judgment, and if not that, Yusuf’s reputation. 

They met in one of the gatehouses by the city walls, abandoned for the hour, and Yusuf handed over the map before he offered any explanations.

Ishaq unrolled the map and began glaring at it, as if it had offended him. “This is more direct than I had thought. I cannot say if their generals are foolish to force such numbers to march without supplies, or if they have a stronger supply train than we have capacity for.” He turned the pages over in his hands, before realising that was all of it. “Where is that information?”

Yusuf grimaced, though Ishaq would not be able to see it. “I am afraid I do not have it.” 

Ishaq looked up with a frown. “What do you mean? Is it your associate that has it, or—he should be arriving soon enough.” _Associate_? If any other spy at all was saying he was allied with Yusuf, Ishaq had been betrayed. Before Yusuf could ask _what associate_ —footsteps had them both pausing, before Ishaq relaxed and said, “Ah, here he is. _Shabah_.”

It was the Thief. Yusuf’s questions froze on his tongue at the same time as the man stopped mid-step to stare at him. That made the third time they had run into each other in this fashion—though Yusuf supposed it only made sense now, knowing _why_ they had each been searching for the same items. He might laugh if he were not so irritated. 

Ishaq looked between the two of them. “You are associates, are you not? Working together as the Ghost?”

Yusuf gritted his teeth, and said, “No,” at the same time as the man said “Yes.” He glared at him, before turning to Ishaq, who was beginning to look uncomfortable. Yusuf grimaced. He did not intend to alienate one of the rare few Egyptian spies who were not cowards and traitors, and it would not do to imply that he—that the Ghost—was not trustworthy.

“We are associates, _yes_ , but we do not work how you perhaps believe,” he lied. Ishaq’s confused look only deepened. “I believe you employed us separately?” It was almost too ridiculous to be true.

“I sent out your usual call from the Ghost, as Rasad had explained, and the two of you appeared an hour apart from the other.” He looked between them, crushing the map in his fist. “If you are not the Ghost, who are you? Explain yourselves.”

The Impostor said, “We are a group, as you know. We typically communicate our tasks to each other directly.”

Yusuf nodded. “It is sheer coincidence that we were both in the city to respond to you—and as you spoke of the urgency of the matter, we had no time to speak with the others. Or we would have attended to the task individually, rather than doubling our efforts.” 

Ishaq’s frown was lighter, but he was still looking unsure. “Where are the papers I require, then?” he asked, and the False Ghost, whom Yusuf had apparently made an associate of, pulled his own cloth from an inside pocket, and presented the whole bundle to Ishaq. 

“They will be receiving supplies from all the Frank-controlled farming towns on the coast,” he said. “It will likely not sustain their train in the summer months, but may be possible in winter.” Yusuf frowned. It was the month of pilgrimage, and winter was approaching steadily—unless they meant to attack within the next few months, it would be over a year before these plans were realised. He did not know the Franks to have that sort of patience. But if their plans were so expedient, he did not know that they would not wreak greater havoc than all expected, particularly if...

He shook his head, and brought himself to the present. 

Ishaq said, “Very well. I must take this information back to the capital—here is your payment.” He handed a small pouch to Yusuf, and looked askance between himself and the False Ghost, and added, “I expected more from the Ghost, you know, after all I heard.” Yusuf half-expected the False Ghost to protest, either about the money, or about the expectations, but nothing came; likely he was waiting for Ishaq to leave, as Yusuf was. 

Yusuf hummed. Had it been only him, he would have lived up easily to what was heard, so it was no slight against him, but he could not say that.“And yet, your work was completed.” 

Ishaq still did not look impressed, but he nodded, taking their leave. Once the echoing of his footsteps disappeared, Yusuf turned to the Impostor and glared. “You,” he snapped, then lowered his voice. “Why would you appear when summoned by a man you do not even know? It could have been a trap!” It had, historically, been a trap several times—but of course, each capture, failed _or_ successful, only bolstered his name as the spy who did not die.

“I receive,” he began, and then stopped, frowning. “The _Ghost_ receives summons from many, even those whom I do not know. There is little danger in appearing, even if it is a trap.”

Yusuf groaned. “You are a paid informant, are you not? Do you truly accept work from those you are unfamiliar with?” He could not begin to imagine the lapse of reputation he must have been suffering because of this fool’s blunders. And _worse_ ; Yusuf had his own alignments—he did not accept _every_ offer or request that came to him. Who could say what this man had agreed to or disagreed to?

He was looking rather irritated at being questioned like this, which told Yusuf that, immortal or not, he was certainly newer to this profession than Yusuf. “They are paying me for unsavoury and secretive work. It does not require _familiarity_.”

Yusuf spent years forming ties and gaining familiarity, to ensure what he did would be effective to the utmost. “I should kill you where you stand,” he muttered, but what would be the point? He shook his head, and turned to leave. The Impostor followed, only to stop cold as the light approached. His hand went to his back, where the crossbow sat still. “Wha—” Yusuf started to ask, before he heard it: footsteps, and not the noise-filled ones of wall guards.

He removed his sword from his back as silently as he could, watching the Impostor as he drew a crossbow bolt out, and inserted it into the crossbow. This close, he could see on the weapon the scrapes and marks he had seen in his dreams a dozen times with no recognition. The Impostor looked at him for a moment, before turning to face the direction of the sound—the entrance, and began winding. 

A man appeared in the entrance, body silhouetted from the light behind. Yusuf braced himself, ready to strike, but he did nothing. He exchanged a glance with the Impostor, when the stranger said, “So it seems the rumours are true after all,” and stepped into the darkness.

“Don’t shoot,” Yusuf murmured. “I know who this is.”

Qasim’s brother in-law, Tashfin, came forward, the little light inside the walls illuminating him. He was a paper merchant, who reminded Yusuf very much of himself, by courtesy of doing precisely what Yusuf had done when _he_ was alive... and also in that he was a risk-taker, unlike his brother. “It seems the Ghost is not just one man, after all. We always suspected, you know,” he told Yusuf, before grinning at the other man. 

Yusuf hoped the little of his face that was exposed would not give away his grimace—it was bad enough for _one_ person to believe that they were both equally the Ghost, but _now_? Qasim and Tashfin were old allies, and tied too deeply to him now, to the future of Egypt. He could not lose their trust, not when so much had already been done to turn the tide of this battle, when _he_ had been responsible for much of it.

“We _would_ prefer to keep that a secret, Tashfin,” he said mildly. Tashfin only laughed and shook his head. 

“I assure you none will hear—but my brother, of course.”

“Of course.” And no doubt a few others. Yusuf shook his head. What was done was done.

“But I am here for a different reason,” he said, and looked between the two of them. “I suppose since you work together, you must have nothing to hide?” 

“Nothing,” Yusuf said, as the Impostor also murmured his assent. Was he always this quiet dealing with his employers, or was this only because he had been caught wrong-footed? Yusuf shot him a glance, but he was making a show of putting away his weapon.

Tashfin nodded. “There is a physician in the Fustati court,” he said, “Ahmad, known as Al-Mamun. He has been attempting to convince the Sultan to ally with the King of Jerusalem yet again. The Sultan is—paranoid. Others are intent that he not keep such an alliance, as they are not trustworthy, and he has broken with them once, but this man has the Sultan’s ear, and insists.”

Yusuf hummed. “All the plans I have found say they intend to drag a great army across the country to join their forces stationed there. I do not believe any alliance formed now would last.”

Tashfin snorted. “None would hesitate to cross him, for he has crossed them first.”

Yusuf looked at the Impostor for a moment, hesitating—but he could not look like he did not trust his associate. There was nothing good about this situation. Shaking his head, he turend to Tashfin, and asked, “And does this have any bearing on Egypt’s ties with the Amir?” It would not be the first time this happened; the Sultan moved between allies with all the frequency and none of the grace of the turning of the sun in the sky. The Amir of Syria had no friendship with the Franks.

“In no significant way,” Tashfin said, meaning that there would likely be no interruption to _their_ plans.

“We will see to him,” the Thief spoke, for the first time in this conversation. Yusuf and Tashfin both turned to face him, before Tashfin grinned. 

“Ah, so you _do_ speak. I was beginning to wonder if you had not joined our friend here because you were as quiet as a ghost.” 

The Thief did something with his face. “An important skill, for one in our—profession.” 

Tashfin laughed, far more amused than he had ever managed with Yusuf, who—in his own opinion—was far more amusing. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything petty. “You must join my caravan out of the city, at least until Farama.”

“As always, you are kind for the offer, but no,” Yusuf said, before the Thief could do something foolish and _agree_. Already his saying that _they_ would see to it told Yusuf that he intended to interfere with his plans _again_. Yusuf could only hope he could either persuade him away from this... or, at least, that the damage he did would be minimal with some cooperation. There were too many things of importance balanced here to risk otherwise.

Tashfin shrugged. “All the same. Speak to Qasim when your work is done, yes?” 

He nodded. Tashfin offered the two of them polite nods and left, leaving them once again alone in the darkness. Yusuf turned to the Thief, and said, “Since you have no familiarity with this man, this is mine. Leave the name of the Ghost, and go— _away_ from Egypt. You do not know what you interfere with.”

The Thief looked unimpressed. “He has hired both of us. If this Qasim is his brother, then he will expect to see two of—you.” His lip curled. “ _Familiarity_.” Yusuf glared at him, but he only began to make for the exit, turning over his shoulder to look as he went. “Would you prefer to travel together, or apart?”

* * *

Yusuf tended to find travel with merchant caravans or ships. There was safety in numbers, particularly in the long stretches between cities, and groups were far less notable than individuals. It was also the only company he ever had; his immortality and his profession tended to conspire together to leave him with almost no friends to speak of. Even if he could think of Andromache and Quỳnh as his new family, they were not _company_ , being hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away. So he traveled with merchants, as a scholar or a fellow-merchant or a travelling poet or artist, whichever suited him best at a given moment, and spent the few days or weeks of the journey pretending to be who he had been once, perhaps, or someone new entirely.

He did _not_ travel in disguise. 

The Impostor looked confused, even through his mask. “You let your features be seen?”

Yusuf shrugged. “What caravan would trust one who keeps his face covered the whole time? And they are civilians. For the rare few that _are_ spies or thieves or informants, they only know me by a name, and not as the Ghost. There is little risk in it.” He had a common enough name, too, to make it even less dangerous. What was one more Yusuf in a thousand?

“You tell them your true name, too?” 

Yusuf sighed. Experience had taught him that he was terrible at responding to other names; the one or two times he had attempted it, he had received too much suspicion for him to try it again, even for the Impostor’s sake. “You do not have to reveal your true name—or face. I could lie for you, and say you have been horribly disfigured, and must keep covered.”

He got a dirty glare for that—well, truly, he got a very mild glare, but it looked more intense coming from his pale eyes. The Impostor tied a sailor’s knot around his bundle to keep it well-strapped to the camel, and Yusuf turned back to his own things, which must go on the animal also. He had little, for he was not carrying as unwieldy and large a weapon as a crossbow. When he was done tying it in place, the Impostor was looking at him. “As you are revealing your name and face to me, it is only fair that I do the same.”

 _Fair?_ Yusuf would ask if he was in fact a spy, but he didn’t want to discourage him. “Together?” he asked, raising his hands to the knots behind his head. The Thief nodded, and as one, they let the cloth hiding their faces fall away.

His dreams were always unclear, only glimpses, short and unhelpful. They gave little clue of what his fellow immortals _looked_ like. And yet, on seeing the Thief’s true face, it was as though he had already known it, as he had felt familiar with his eyes upon first seeing them. A strong, almost aquiline nose, and lips curved and shaped like an archer’s bow, with the faint beginning of a beard. 

Did he also find Yusuf familiar, as though he had seen him before? “My name is Yusuf,” he said, irrationally uncomfortable with something as simple as revealing his name.

The man hummed. “Nicolò,” he said, these syllables matching the cadence of his voice better than his poor Arabic. Yusuf turned to check the ropes once, and turned to find the Th—Nicolò frowning. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

Nicolò pressed his lips together, an expression he had seen before in his eyes and the taut skin around them, and was now seeing on his whole face. It was—an odd experience. “Well,” he said, “you may be the only person alive to know my name. It is strange.”

Yusuf thought, _oh_. “So will several others soon,” he said, though he did not know if it was a warning or a word of comfort, or which it would give to him. Nicolò shrugged, and turned away. Yusuf made a face. What did he care, after all, of _his_ comfort? They were not _friends_. Nicolò was a thief besides, and had forced his way into this all-important mission with his unwanted presence. Yusuf did not, and would not, care, about him.

He met the head of the caravan at the very front of the train while Nicolò took the camel with their luggage to the back. His name was Muhammad, and he traded in sugar primarily, had apparently been organising trains for almost twenty years without _once_ being looted, and was apparently very fond of talking. He did not even blink as Yusuf introduced himself and Nicolò as scholars travelling to Fustat, hoping the man knew how to read, in case it was ever necessary. It was as they wrapped up the arrangements for their travel and tent space that Nicolò arrived, wariness written through his body. Muhammad glanced at him and nodded, asking no further questions. 

He only said, “we leave at the turn of the hour,” putting away the coins Yusuf had given him—all from the money, of course, which he still had... which reminded him that he still had to discuss what they did with that money with Nicolò, since he _had_ played a part in achieving it. Yusuf nodded, and Muhammad disappeared back into the train.

Nicolò turned to him. “I expected more questions.”

So had Yusuf, but he shook his head. “You are awfully paranoid for a man who is supposedly a competent—”

Nicolò made shushing noises, before apparently realising what he had said. “Supposedly?” he whispered.

Yusuf shrugged. “You got caught, not once, but twice, the only two times I have seen you.” Admittedly, the first time should not count—the average spy or guard would not have captured Nicolò. But Yusuf included it anyway, as after all it was only the mess _he_ had made that had led to him getting caught the second time. 

“You mean the time when I stole the papers from you?” Yusuf narrowed his eyes, irritated with the reminder. That would not have happened had he not been blindsided by the fact that Nicolò was also immortal.

“I stole the other ones from you first.”

Nicolò scoffed. “An ordinary man would never have been able to. I killed you first, remember?”

Yusuf rolled his eyes but said nothing, as that was, unfortunately, true. 

Despite his supposed discomfort with travelling in a group, face and name revealed, Nicolò did not _appear_ uncomfortable. In fact, he did not appear much of anything, all hint of discomposure disappearing behind a mask of plain politeness. He introduced himself to the other merchants as Yusuf did, spoke in Arabic quite comfortably, as though there was no hint of accent or strangeness about it, and responded remarkably well to questions about what they studied. 

“Geography,” he said, smiling, and proceeded to talk nonsense about the shape of the earth for a minute, until all recognition in the other man’s eyes faded to nothingness, and he had to smile politely and walk away.

He looked familiar with long journeys, too, with no trouble keeping to the pace of the group. Yusuf watched him quietly chatting as they walked for the day, with no free animals for the two of them. One of the merchants, who had introduced himself as Muhammad—“but there are a dozen Muhammads here. I go by Al-Qurashi,”—sidled up to him as they were moving, grinning.

“Are you and that Nicolò,” he began, and didn’t elaborate. Yusuf just looked at Nicolò and back, before Al-Qurashi raised his eyebrows, and Yusuf understood what he meant.

If asked, which of course he would not be, he would say that the only reason he flushed was because of how rare it was for him to have that sort of relation with—anyone. It was another consequence of his profession, his immortality. In his earlier years, he had thought that with time he would become more... practical. That he would come to appreciate the pleasure of intimate company even if he _was_ lying to them, even if it could not last in any way. Unfortunately, he was over a hundred, and had found none of that practicality. It had been a long, long time since he had even been attracted to another, impossibility and dismal reality throwing water on his interest every time.

Not that he was in any way attracted to Nicolò, the impostor. 

“You do not have to answer,” Al-Qurashi said, slapping his arm. “Do not worry, I shall tell no one. That is Ashraf,” he said, pointing to one of the men in the back. “He is the one who noticed; he is far more observant than I am, about these things. Though if you are trying to be secretive, perhaps you should not stand so closely and whisper.”

Fortunately, Yusuf’s awkwardness could easily be interpreted as being due to being caught. 

He approached Nicolò when they stopped for a mid-afternoon meal and prayers. “Some of the men believe we are together.” Yusuf had no doubts that, for whatever he had said, the word had spread to at least a few others... and would spread some more before they reached their destination.

Nicolò looked confused for a moment, before recognition struck, and he hummed. “It is a reasonable guess.” _What_? Yusuf opened his mouth to ask _how_ that could be called reasonable, when Nicolò added, “It is more reasonable than assuming we are suspicious in some other way, yes?” 

When he put it like _that_ , yes. “I don’t object to the assumption, but we will need a few more explanations on hand, then. They seem the friendly sort.” Yusuf _liked_ that, ordinarily, when he was by only his dependable self. “They will want to ask questions.”

“You have done this before, have you not?” Nicolò asked, voice low. “And you claim to be very competent. Surely you can make up a few false answers.”

Yusuf glared at him. When he looked away, a man was watching them from afar, eyes narrowed. He followed his gaze for a moment, before shaking his head; it was Nicolò’s earlier paranoia that was making him jittery, that was all. That, or someone else staring at them because they thought they were together.

* * *

Naturally, they were given tent space right next to each other. Yusuf would complain, but it was only ideal; after all, they had a mission to plan together. 

It was also natural that they disagreed on everything, from _what_ to do to _how_ to do it. Yusuf’s first thought had been to make it appear somehow that he was aligned with the King of Jerusalem, and aiding in a betrayal to Egypt. Unfortunately, they knew too little about the situation— _why_ Tashfin had been the one to tell him of this, and not Qasim the last time he was in Fustat, Yusuf didn’t know—and did not have the time besides to make that entirely possible.

Nicolò’s first idea had been to cause some sort of chaos, and leave his crossbow bolts scattered there. Yusuf didn’t see how that could tie back to Al-Mamun strongly enough to implicate him as a traitor or untrustworthy.

“If he is the greatest supporter for making alliances to stop any battle breaking out—”

In truth, he found that plan too unsafe, not only too unreliable. They could not die, that was true, but he did not entirely trust Nicolò to not get caught or captured in some way. And though he did not care to be working with a partner, he could not in good conscience possibly leave him to _be_ captured, which would only endanger all that he had been working toward for over a year.

The only trouble to planning like this was the lack of information, and the need for all of their conversations to be whispered, hushed. Which in turn had led to half the men in the train being convinced that they were together, until one day Muhammad had pulled him aside and told him that they had nothing to worry about from all on the caravan. The questions had come, too, just as Yusuf had expected them to, but Nicolò was, if nothing else, perfectly capable of lying on the spot, and was never so expressive or vocal as to look suspicious.

(“How long have you known each other?” 

“It feels like we met only days ago.”)

Irritatingly, it was Yusuf the deception was beginning to weigh upon. 

He did not feel guilty, not exactly. It was more that Nicolò was—handsome. Perhaps he would not have thought it if Ashraf and Al-Qurashi were not so eager to speak with him, and expected him to lavish praises upon his friend and partner; or perhaps he _would_ have noticed, anyway. But travelling with him, and laying beside him to sleep, and watching him do ordinary things such as dress and eat, or being told that there was today a seat for him if he did not wish to walk, only to discover he would be sharing with Nicolò—all of those things had had an unfortunate effect on Yusuf.

And then, on the fourth day of their journey, Nicolò disappeared.

Yusuf was more distressed than he would like. He could not say anything and alert the others to his discomfort, for he had no idea where Nicolò _could_ have gone, and he could not say nothing, for if he had disappeared and betrayed him, he had information that could put Yusuf in some significant danger. And yet, all he could think was—

 _He would not do that_.

But would he not? After all, how long had Yusuf known him? He had learned his name only four days ago. He was not thinking as logically as he would like, but he could not afford to be illogical about this. He spent the day falling further and further back in the train, as though Nicolò would appear suddenly, and have been here the whole time. If his fists were tight with strain, and he was wishing his sword were not packed away with his things, he could do nothing about it, only skipping through a hundred possibilities that ranged from _he has betrayed you_ to _he is in danger_. 

He appeared again just as the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and Yusuf’s mental possibilities were reaching their worst. Yusuf’s fists unclenched slowly, as Nicolò gave him a very sheepish smile. 

“I heard that you were looking for me,” he said, which meant Yusuf had of course not been as subtle as he had hoped. He should be thankful that most of their train had now assumed they were together in some way; it at least gave him a good reason to look strained when Nicolò was nowhere to be seen, or to look for him. He was not feeling particularly thankful, though; Yusuf only glared at him. 

“Where were you? It has been hours.” Or so it had felt.

Nicolò leaned in. “I caught the wrong end of a knife earlier,” he murmured. “I had to stay hidden while my arm healed. It was quite gruesome.” Nicolò raised his arm, which of course looked good as new, but Yusuf could see flecks of what might be blood at the end of his sleeve, an unseemly tear. 

He sighed. It was a possibility he had not considered, and not nearly as bad as most of his imaginings. “You should have told me.”

Nicolò’s smile was as small and similar to all of his smiles, but Yusuf thought he was beginning to be familiar with his expressions, or perhaps that Nicolò was being more open. He could read the apology in it. “My apologies,” he said, voice soft. “I am not used to being able to tell anyone these things.”

Yusuf looked away, the power of Nicolò looking directly into his eyes, gaze so intent, almost too much to bear. 

Two rows away, a man whose name he had learned was Arif, turned hastily away from them. Yusuf narrowed his eyes, and focused on him, rather than on the comfort of Nicolò walking beside him, or how relieved he felt that Nicolò had not betrayed him, after all.

* * *

By the sixth day, it became exceedingly clear that they _were_ being watched. Arif was too unobtrusive, yet visible, not to be an informer of some sort. He couldn’t say if they had been recognised, but it was painfully clear that the man knew _something_. 

Nicolò brought it up the next morning, when he returned from prayers. “We are being watched,” he murmured, though he kept his eyes on the knots holding their things to the camel. “The weaver, Arif. He stares often. I cannot say if he is simply staring at you, or it is something more.”

Yusuf raised a brow. “At me?” _When you are here?_

Nicolò shrugged. “You must receive many stares.” He patted Yusuf on the back, once, and left to go speak to Mariya about something. Yusuf stared after him for a moment— _receive many stares?_ What was that supposed to mean?—before turning away hastily as Mariya and Nicolò looked his way. But even as he turned, Arif’s turban appeared behind two camels, and then disappeared from sight.

The day’s travel went quickly, as they all did. Yusuf kept by Muhammad for the most part, chatting about the weather and his trade and the strained times they lived in, but keeping his attention on his surroundings. Every time Nicolò neared him, even if only to speak for a moment, Arif appeared in the sphere of his vision. It was enough to make clear that they _were_ being watched, though it was unlikely for him to have heard much of what they discussed from his distance—though it was not as though they were freely discussing their work when surrounded by people.

It was as they stopped for the night, Muhammad happily announcing that they had made greater progress than he expected, that Nicolò appeared beside him. He took the seat next to him by the firepit, rubbing his hands together. For all that he was pale and from further north, he seemed to feel the cold as keenly as Yusuf did, and at this time of the year, nights were freezing. Leaning closer to him, Nicolò said, “You have been watched all day.”

Yusuf hummed, but only nodded. Across the firepit, Arif sat, ostensibly occupied in conversation with one of the traders—but it was almost as though his attention was on them. Every few seconds, his gaze seemed to slip from his conversation partner and in their direction. 

Yusuf turned to Nicolò, and said, “Hold still for a moment.”

Nicolò raised a brow, but said nothing else, and Yusuf leaned in, until his nose was pressed to the other side of Nicolò’s neck, and he could whisper directly in his ear. “If we are wrong, and he is in fact watching you—or me,” he added, “this will make it clearer.” 

Nicolò said only, “Is this how you identify spies all the time?” 

Yusuf flushed—it was perhaps a little transparent an excuse—but placed as he was, there was no way Nicolò would be able to see it. Hints of redness were slowly making their way up Nicolò’s throat as well. He was close enough to make out individual strands of his beard, to see the bumps and dips of his skin. He had intended to say something, whisper poor jokes to test Nicolò’s mettle at a mask—he could almost picture it, pursed lips, head turning down in entertainment, but from a distance it may look like pleasure—but now that he was this close, he had suddenly forgotten the lot. 

“He turned away,” Nicolò said after a few seconds. “No flush, no embarrassment. I don’t think he was watching you after all.”

“Nor you,” he replied, and pulled away—only to find Nicolò staring at him, still entirely too close. Were his eyes blown wide, or was that an effect of the night? Shadows formed by the fire played with the angle of his nose, his cheekbones, his dry lips. He was not moving away, any more than Yusuf was.

“If I am correct—” a great booming voice interrupted the—the— _whatever_ that was, and Yusuf felt more than saw Nicolò startle, even as he himself turned to face Muhammad. The man was grinning, and all eyes were upon him. Yusuf cleared his throat, and straightened his spine, so he was facing him too. Nicolò’s hand, placed next to his thigh, flexed. “We are in fact only half a day’s ride away from Damasis! We shall begin early tomorrow, and if we make good pace, we should arrive before Asr!”

On the other side of the firepit, Arif stood and left. Yusuf and Nicolò exchanged glances.

* * *

They arrived at Damasis while the sun was still high in the sky. This did not change their schedule much, but for giving them several hours to spend in the city before sundown, for they were slated to leave at dawn the next day. They were past the longest and dreariest part of their journey; it would be a short journey to Fustat now, following the river south—and better for having refreshed themselves and spent a night in the comfort of sheltered rooms. Even as some of the traders discussed what they would do in the town—most spoke of baths and well-cooked food—Yusuf could see Arif slipping away towards the entrance of the wikala, dodging conversation. 

He caught Nicolò’s eye, only a few feet away, and nodded his head in the direction he had seen Arif go in. Nicolò nodded, and followed. “Yusu—Yusuf!” Ashraf said, snapping his fingers before his face. Yusuf looked back at him with a hint of awkwardness, but they were only laughing.

“We were asking, before you were once more distracted by your Nicolò, if the two of you would like to join us for the day? The baths first, I think—not the ones _here_ , there is a better place across the river—and Al-Qurashi wants to see the market after, he’s never been here before... The rest we will decide as we go.”

Yusuf offered an apologetic grin. “We have a friend in the city, but perhaps I shall see you at dinner?”

Al-Qurashi grinned. “I said so!” He slung an arm over Ashraf’s shoulder. “Well, we will be saved another day of Yusuf and Nicolò making moon eyes at each other. Come on! We will see you at dinner!”

Yusuf shook his head—he did _not_ make moon eyes!—but let them go, turning towards the room they had been given. They would be sharing again, but Yusuf was not... as opposed to it as he thought he might have been—though he would not have been opposed to it had it been any other, either, who did not snore, and kept their limbs to themselves at night. That was all. It had nothing to do with Nicolò himself.

He shook himself as he arrived and saw the two beds, and grabbed their swords from their luggage, strapping his swordbelt to his chest, and pulling out two head coverings from his own clothing, unsure of where Nicolò kept his. After a moment, he took Nicolò’s crossbow, too, and slung it over one arm. He would have to go down the window; it wouldn’t do to appear with all this weaponry after having kept it hidden for days. 

Yusuf sighed, tightened his grip on all his weapons, pressed a free hand to his mouth so he would not scream and alert somebody, and jumped.

Their room was only on the second floor, so all the jump did was break his legs, and perhaps a few of the bones of his spine. He supposed he should count it fortunate that he had not died, but it was worse to be alive while his legs healed. He pressed his eyes shut as the worst of it passed, but his healing was quick—quick enough that in a few moments, all that remained of the pain was a cramp in his thighs, and even that disappeared as he rose to his feet.

He found Nicolò by the western wall, watching the city with his hawklike gaze. Yusuf handed him his weaponry, waiting as he slung the crossbow and sword on his back and wrapped the cloth around his face, leaving only his eyes visible. “He went west—I believe he’s going across the river. I don’t think he saw me.”

Yusuf raised a brow. “You don’t _think_ ? It is bad enough that I am forced to share my name with you without you saying things like you don’t _think_ you were seen.”

Nicolò glared at him. “He didn’t see me. Come on,” he said, and took off. Yusuf followed, grinning. Nicolò moved silently enough, even with the heavy weaponry on his back, and though Yusuf would not call him _graceful_ per se, he had an efficiency of movement. He probably had not been seen; if anything worked against him, it was how distinctive he appeared. _But not so much when he is hidden like this_. He had distinctive eyes, yes, but not everyone had the opportunity to stare him in the eyes, Yusuf imagined.

It was only a few minutes before they caught sight of Arif, who was in fact going across the river. They followed at a distance once they had him, alternating between streets and walls—particularly Nicolò, whose crossbow marked him out as stranger than a simple sword would.

Arif finally met his contact near the markets by the western end of the city, a painfully public area—or, Yusuf should say, bumped into him, when he had carefully avoided all contact with anyone all day. Yusuf narrowed his eyes as he made a show of offering an apology, and picked up all of the man’s fruit, and—ah, of course, slipped a folded piece of paper into his basket. 

They watched for a few moments as the two separated, Arif walking into the narrow streets of the markets, and emerging again moments later to leave. Yusuf shook his head, unimpressed. “Can you take care of our friend while I find out exactly _what_ was in that note?”

“You don’t think he intends to meet anyone else?”

Yusuf shrugged. “Watch him for a while, then. If he is going back directly, perhaps that would be better. I do not believe he has any companions in our party awaiting him.”

Nicolò nodded, all his focus already on his target, and slipped away. Yusuf followed the other man, avoiding the streets this time to keep time with him. He seemed more familiar with the city than Arif had been; perhaps a local? He was old, with grey streaking through his hair, but lean and limber, quicker than someone his age would be for a simple trip to the market.

Yusuf hummed as he stopped by a house, and waited for a few moments while the man looked around. It was simple enough, with the large courtyard, to go over the wall—he waited again as the man opened and shut doors, and no other noise issued from within. _Empty, or awaiting someone?_ The man disappeared into one of the chambers, and Yusuf lowered himself quietly, looking through the other arched rooms once. No one.

He turned back to where the man had gone, and cursed when he found him staring. 

“You—leave at once!” Yusuf said nothing, and the man took a step backward. _No training?_ Few spies _received_ any sort of weapons training, he supposed. They were informers primarily, dealing with words, not actions, as Yusuf had once been. “I have someone coming to visit me, and they will know who is responsible, and whatever you have planned will fail,” the man said, visibly strained.

So nobody was coming.

It was quick, as it always was. Yusuf wiped his sword carefully on the man’s clothing before he rose again, note pilfered from his pockets. It was short. _Almohad spy following me,_ it said, even though Yusuf had disguised his dialect as best he could. _From the east. Has a Frank with him. Let Rd know._

 _Codewords_. Yusuf groaned, but he had no way of knowing who or what _Rd_ was—or what the import of him travelling from the east was. Alliances? If whatever information they had was relevant to him being a spy for the King of Jerusalem, as was the obvious assumption given his travelling partner, it would achieve nothing—but if they were thinking of something further east still... 

He opened up several shelf doors as he left, leaving papers scattered across the ground, giving them only a cursory glance, before pausing upon one, half-torn, but still legible. 

_The Sultan listens to Al-Mamun more and more, but my words begin to have an impact on him. I am his biggest opponent. Egypt will make no more alliances._

It was signed _R_ —for _Rd_? Yusuf frowned, and crumpled the paper and stuffed it into one of his pockets, before leaving the house. He took the higher route back to where he had left Nicolò, but of course both he and likely Arif were long-gone. If he was correct, and Arif simply meant to tip this man off to his presence, then he would have returned to the wikala—that was the route Yusuf took, humming with satisfaction when he saw Nicolò perched atop a roof, on his knees, staring down. 

He waved, catching his attention. Even through the cloth, Yusuf could see the way concentration hardened his features, left them all angles and lines. He crossed his hands in a gesture, and Nicolò nodded, raising his palm to stop him when Yusuf began to approach. Nicolò rose to his feet, following now as his target went from street to street; his own eyes seemed to go from corner to corner, as though searching for something, before he paused, as though settled or having made a decision. 

Yusuf half-expected him to draw his crossbow, but he didn’t; instead, he jumped to the ground, landing with one palm out, mere moments before Arif turned a corner. It was his small dagger he used, pressing one hand to Arif’s mouth, and burying the knife in his stomach. His hand swallowed the cry that may have come, and it was only moments before he rose, leaving the man’s upright body leaning against a wall.

He was back atop the roof in another moment. “Are we done?” he whispered, almost silent in the busy day. Yusuf nodded, feeling as though he was in a daze. Below, several people had passed Arif’s body already, not noticing that he was not just leaning against the wall. Meanwhile, Nicolò had turned and landed on the other side of the building, putting a street and a half between himself and the body—which would likely become more before the discovery was made.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, when he noticed Yusuf still watching him as he descended. Yusuf saw vividly the image of Al-Qurashi saying he made _moon eyes_.

“Nothing,” he lied. He could only hope Nicolò would not notice. 

* * *

He did not, strictly speaking, bear lasting injury, nor feel the aches and pains that came with age, but that did not stop Yusuf from being completely exhausted when he returned to his room that night. Perhaps it was a consequence of coming to the irritating conclusion that he _liked_ Nicolò, and then having to spend the afternoon pretending he didn’t, and the evening pretending he was pretending he did. It was all quite complicated.

He shook his head as he climbed into his bed, feeling the satisfaction even in muscles that had not known soreness in nearly seventy years. Nicolò made a noise from his own bed, and Yusuf looked up, turning his head to face him. He looked serious, now that they were out of company.

“What is it?”

Nicolò shrugged. “It has been a long day.” 

Yusuf hummed. It _had_. He wondered if it was lengthened by knowing that their following Arif, following the other man, had been for a purpose, had been a new trouble for when they reached Fustat, or if it was worse to believe the man had nothing incriminating in his home, as Yusuf had told Nicolò. 

But that was, apparently, not where Nicolò’s mind had been. “It has been a long time since I have spent so much time around people.”

Yusuf raised a brow. “You are well-suited to it.” There were no moments that he looked awkward, or out of place, or even absent from the conversation.

Nicolò shook his head. “I suppose. I had friends once—” he smirked when Yusuf made a face of doubt “—but it has been just me for some time now. It was impossible to go back once I realised I would not die, nor grow old.”

Yusuf looked at Nicolò. Andromache would probably not like what he was about to do—or would she? She had been the first to say they were all meant to be together. Yusuf was the one who had refused. And Nicolò was—immortal, and trustworthy. He took a deep breath. “There are others,” he said. Nicolò looked unsure for a moment, before Yusuf nodded; then his Nicolò’s eyes widened with realisation, a series of emotions flitting through. Yusuf continued, “Two women. Andromache, and Quỳnh. Older than you could imagine.”

Nicolò was staring at him, eyes wide enough to drown in. “You have met them.” Yusuf nodded. “And still you are here, on your own.”

He nodded again. “We met years ago, when things here were not as—stable.” Though perhaps stable was too strong a word to put to the _current_ situation. “They encouraged me to go with them, but I could not leave. I had been a spy since before my very first death, though I was very removed from all this, then. And it seemed even more important after. They weren’t very happy about it, but they understood, I think. They do something... similar, you may say. Though they are a little more upfront than we are about it.”

Nicolò exhaled. “I suppose I understand. Immediately after my own death, I was desperate to do anything I could to—help.” He turned so he was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. “I had no idea how at first. I can’t say how exactly I started doing _this_. At first it was... stopping bandits and looters from bothering passing trains, helping people beset by attackers. Then someone mistook me for—for you, I suppose.”

Yusuf snorted. “You were born in Jerusalem, then?” He had been wondering for some time—Nicolò’s accent was not that of one born speaking Arabic... but he had little experience with the Frankish residents of the kingdom of Jerusalem, and could not say that he _was_ correct.

Nicolò shook his head, though. “I was part of the first—we called ourselves pilgrims, but.” He shrugged, mouth twisting into something unhappy. “I died at the gates of the city.”

Yusuf blinked. “So did I.”

Nicolò shook his head. “No,” he said, “I mean, oh, seventy years ago, before it fell for the first time.”

Yusuf rose off his bed, staring down at the man. Nicolò’s gaze went from distant to something closer, more intent, as he did. “No, _you_ don’t understand—so did I. I died on the walls of the city, when it was not called _Jerusalem_ yet.” All these years later he could perhaps say with a little clarity—with a fraction less of grief—that it had pushed him to continue this way, having nothing, and being nothing, in the aftermath of that. Seeing the consequences that so many could not.

Nicolò sat up too, before his expression shifted infinitesimally into something unhappier. “Yusuf, I—”

He shook his head. “No, no.” He was in no mood for apologies; they meant little, after all. “That is why you do it too, yes?” He gestured around them, meaning not the room, but the place, his presence here. 

Nicolò nodded. “To help, in whatever way I can. If it is more than an ordinary person could do, then I should do it, as I can. It can never be enough, but...” he shook his head, and Yusuf hummed, sitting back on his bed himself. Nicolò’s words were as though reverberating from his own mind; years of _what is the purpose of this all_ followed by years more of _if I can stop such a thing happening ever again_ followed by years more of doubt and grief. But Nicolò would understand—he knew that now, if, no, _when_ , he told him of his greater plans, he would understand.

Not yet, though.

“We do whatever we can,” he said instead. “If it is only one person, it is still one person. Quỳnh told me that.” It was difficult for him to remember that—it never felt _enough_. But perhaps after this, it would.

Nicolò made a thoughtful noise, rolling to face him. “She sounds very wise. I wish I could meet her.”

Yusuf raised a brow. “You can. We can always find each other—you must have them too? The dreams?” Nicolò looked hesitant, and Yusuf said, “They are like short flashes. Never very clear. And there is a sense of pull, east or south or west. We need only follow it to find them.” That was what they had said, last Yusuf saw them: _you know how to find us_. 

“I think,” Nicolò said, “I’ve dreamed of you. For years. I always thought it was just my imagination that you seemed familiar when we met.”

Yusuf grinned. “So have I. I didn’t realise that we died at the same time, though.” He couldn’t imagine it, seeing Nicolò right there on the battlefield, having spent the last seventy years together. Or perhaps not together; their first meeting would have been in _worse_ circumstances than this one. No, perhaps this was for the better. Still—perhaps Nicolò would not have spent these last years alone, even if just in knowing he was there.

“It is not so bad,” Nicolò said, offering a shrug, hint of a smile returning to his lips. “I am not alone _now_.”

“No,” Yusuf said. He was truly, well and truly, fucked. “You aren’t.”

* * *

They watched the physician for two days. Two days were too short to get any true idea of his ordinary haunts, but they did not have much time, supposedly. It was while Nicolò was watching him on the second day, and Yusuf was carrying out other reconnaissance, that he saw him—Rd. He emerged from the palace just as Yusuf was going to look around for hidden entrances, giving him a good idea of where a secret entrance was, as well as someone suspicious using said secret entrance. 

Yusuf followed him into the city at a distance, watching as he made his way through an alley. “Ridwan,” he heard from within, and paused. _Rd_. The same man? Hasty quieting noises came from within, and Yusuf followed, turning the corner just enough to see within—only to come face to face with two guards with knives.

Ah.

He was dead before he could remove his sword from its belt, and awake again before the guards had left the alley to stand watch on either side, as the man and whoever he met spoke. Someone had taken off his mask, which was—not ideal, but there was nothing to do about it now. He stayed in position. Looking dead was a remarkable skill, really. He had not had enough opportunities to develop it.

“I saw a man watching Al-Mamun again this morning,” the second man was saying. _Nicolò_. “We must make sure they do not target any of our men to discredit him. Or kill him... Who do you think has sent them?”

“They are not our men, and they cannot be his men, so it must be an outsider. The Sultan is paranoid enough to have his own men followed, but spying is not his method.”

“You don’t suppose the others the Sultan has begged for aid have something to do with it?”

Yusuf’s fingers twitched. The last thing he wanted was for either of these men to get hint of who had truly sent him—them. If they had, he supposed he _may_ stop these men here and now... though that would mean little if they had more supporters in court, who would take their deaths to push whatever agenda they held. Could the physician be blamed for this? That would discredit him, as well as remove Ridwan’s influence. What was _his_ purpose in pushing for Egypt to take no allies? Some wish to become Sultan himself?

“We must trust none of them... but I don’t believe it matters as long as they do not interfere with us.” Yusuf stiffened again, barely breathing, as footsteps came closer to him. “We have one of them here...” It was impossible to stay totally still as shadow fell upon him. Somehow, the man did not notice. “But likely there are more, if you say one was watching Al-Mamun.”

The other man nodded. “Stay away for him for a few days.”

Yusuf stayed still until Ridwan had left, taking the guards with him, of course, and then rose to follow the other man. It was only moments before he was noticed, but this time he had intended that. When the man ducked into one of the shaded gardens, back pressed to a wall, Yusuf followed, and gave him the darkest stare he could imagine. 

One second; another. And then the man let out a strangled scream, cutting off abruptly as Yusuf raised his sword to his throat. “Why do you want to see Al-Mamun dead?”

“You _died_ —” the man began, and Yusuf pressed the point of his sword into his neck. 

“I don’t suppose you know what happens if a demon kills you?” he asked. The man’s eyes widened, and he began to shake his head. Yusuf could have laughed; the one thing that worked like a charm, every time. “Tell me, then. What do you achieve by having the physician removed?”

“Everyone knows there will be an attack soon. We have all heard of men gathering in the north, and the plans. He—keeps pushing for us to offer another peace, some tribute, make an alliance in case we are double-crossed.” As if the Sultan had not double-crossed everyone in the region already. Yusuf said nothing, only raised a brow, and he elaborated. “We have—the man you saw earlier, he is much more suitable to be the Sultan, he has royal blood too, he—he will make peace with the Franks himself when battle is imminent, and take the throne with their aid!” 

Yusuf grimaced, but at least all of this was easy enough to solve. “Thank you,” he said, before he killed him.

* * *

They agreed that Yusuf would do it—well, Yusuf insisted that he would do it. Nicolò did not have all the information, and he wasn’t going to, not something of this importance, not until it was carried through. After, he would tell him. But because they had agreed to do this together—

“We did not _agree_ , you happened to be there when _I_ was hired.”

“And we agreed we would do it together.”

—because they had agreed to do this together, Nicolò had offered to keep watch for him. Watching for threats, he had said; it was almost touching, knowing he had someone watching over him, even though he couldn’t die in any permanent way. Yusuf could see him now, even through the thin dawn light, perched on one of the towers nearby, crossbow in arm.

They had discussed initially what they wanted to do. It was better to discredit Al-Mamun than to kill him, they had decided, lest his death make his wishes dearer to the Sultan, or look like a conspiracy against him. The exact method of that had yet been under discussion when Yusuf had followed Ridwan. Nicolò had warmed to the idea of placing some sort of incriminating evidence on Al-Mamun, but that wouldn’t help with the other matter. No, Yusuf knew what he must do.

Making certain his mask was in place as Al-Mamun emerged from his home, he waited by the walls for a minute, two, before it became clear that he was alone. Then he ran for him, sending him to the ground with one quick shove, and stealing the pouch of money and dagger he had on his belt. The man was left shouting, but he had been alone on the street, and Yusuf was quick; no one followed. He picked up pace, and looked up for a moment, imagining he could see the look of confusion on Nicolò, but of course he could not from this distance. What he could see was a black blur struggling to keep pace with him even though he was in the towers above. 

Yusuf would regret the deception if this was not so very important.

He arrived at the tower Ridwan owned just seconds before he left his home, a man on either side. Yusuf stood, bracing himself against the wall, breath coming heavy, but as silent as he could make them, watching for the right moment. In the sky, no black silhouette waited for him. 

He shook himself; he had done this alone for decades.

The moment came soon enough. Ridwan paused, occupied in his hushed conversation, and Yusuf emerged from the shadow of his large courtyard walls, breath well in control now, hand wrapped around the stolen dagger in his belt. The first steps were casual, the pace of a man who was right where he should be, then faster as he approached Ridwan—and faster still as he left the dagger buried in his back. 

One of the men caught his falling body; the other turned to follow Yusuf, and tried to grab him. He dodged easily, and dodged again as the man pulled a knife and swiped at him. A moment later, an arrow struck him down. Yusuf looked to the sky, but Nicolò had hidden in some shadow. What would he see, regardless? He would not be much more than a sun-dark silhouette, the curve of a crossbow.

Yusuf dropped the stolen pouch of money by the fallen man, and ran.

* * *

When he arrived at their rented room, Nicolò was already there, pacing a hole through the floor. He looked up as Yusuf entered, glaring. Yusuf raised an eyebrow, then left him there to clean the dust and blood from himself. When he returned, Nicolò was seated, and still glaring.

“What was that? Or should I ask who was that?”’

Yusuf had expected this, of course. “It was one of the other ministers, a rival of Al-Mamun’s,” he explained, which was not really explaining at all.

Nicolò looked irritated with the response. “We agreed that—”

“We did _not_ agree,” Yusuf cut in. “I said I would do it, and we had not agreed _how_ we would discredit him. This was the best way.” 

Nicolò rose to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. “If that was true, and this was only the most convenient way, you would have told me something. And don’t say something about my being squeamish around death—we both know I am not.”

Yusuf shrugged. “Alright. It was not just about convenience; Ridwan, that was his name, was trying to sabotage Al-Mamun, so he could make the alliance later himself, and be placed upon the throne by the King of Jerusalem.”

Nicolò frowned. “That was not part of our information.”

“He is the man Arif was working for.” His frown deepened, two lines embedded between his eyes. Yusuf sighed. “I have been working with Qasim and Tashfin for over a year now; before that, I worked with a few other spies. We have the same goals. I know when one thing interferes with their greater plans; they said nothing about him, yes, but they trust me to know what to do.”

Nicolò’s expression grew strained. “This goes beyond preventing the attack on Fustat.”

Yusuf nodded. What harm could it do to tell him now, when all knew an attack was imminent? Nothing would stop it, not with men already gathering, and Fustat left with no option but to fight. The only thing of essence was making certain that the combined forces from Syria and Marrakesh were prepared, and would be here in time to stop the destruction of the city. “Yes.”

“And what are these greater plans?”

“A more stable presence ruling these lands. One who does not hide behind false alliances, and make enemies on each side.” 

Nicolò’s face cleared of all emotion entirely. “This is something very different from what you told me you do.”

Yusuf scoffed. “What is that? Help? What would it do to prevent one battle, when in another year or three there will be another attack, with thousands more dying? The last attempt on Fustat ended with perhaps ten thousand dead; how many will die this time? The Sultan forms an alliance in a moment and breaks it in the next, as suits him. To let that continue would be to harm.”

“So what is your solution? Murdering the man who would replace him?”

“Replacing him with someone with a center of power.” Even through the careful blankness on Nicolò’s features, Yusuf could feel the doubt. “I doubted this myself, when I was first approached, but over time I have come to realize that alliances must be engineered.” And he _had_ helped engineer them, becoming the person to go from Syria to Egypt to Tunis and back, as necessary. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, sounding entirely too reasonable for someone who also looked angry. “This is not helping, this is interfering. You cannot know the consequences of this, if it will help or hurt. You were the one who told me—if it is just one life, it is still one _life_.”

Yusuf shook his head. “Interfering? Am I not from here? Do I not live here? The Kingdom of Jerusalem, which did not exist when I—or _you_ —were alive, has grown year by year, and none living have seen that as we have. They attack east and west, they gain land and territory while we quarrel amongst ourselves. One life is good, yes, but Nicolò, this would do—this would do more for everyone. For years, decades. Living men have short memories, but I do not. What you do to help, you do from without, with little understanding of the inner workings here. I have been doing this for over seventy years, even before my death. I know what I am about.”

Nicolò nodded, curt and stiff. “Very well then,” he said. “I shall leave you to it, _Shabah_.” Yusuf frowned as Nicolò disappeared into the bedchamber, then emerged with his clothing, bundle hastily tied into a knot, arbalest in his hand instead of on his back. Yusuf crossed his arms as he nodded again.

“If I hear about the Ghost—”

“You are quite alive,” Nicolò said. “Goodbye, Yusuf.”

Yusuf scoffed, and Nicolò left. That was alright; though they had not spoken of it, they would undoubtedly have parted after this mission was completed, and their payment gotten. Yusuf would simply keep half of it for Nicolò—or perhaps he would not. After all, he had done little in their assigned task. Except save his life, with that one arrow... but it would not have killed him.

He did not care. He did not care even as he went to meet Qasim, who somehow knew to expect two men, and was surprised when he came alone. He did not care even when he rode away to the coast again, and dreamed of hands that he now recognised, calling him south and east, and he did not care when he arrived in Al-Iskandariyah and heard of himself stopping trains of soldiers from interfering with pilgrim caravans. 

Nicolò could do whatever he wished.

* * *

It was as he was on his way back from Al Kanais that word reached him; the Franks were on the march, and would not be long from Fustat. The King had left a few hundred men stationed near the city after the last battle, and they might make a first attempt, if the King had no care for their lives—as he likely did not, which would make things even more immediate.

He left the city before sunset instead of staying till the next morning, leaving on his own so he wouldn’t be slowed by numbers—even so, by the time he had reached the city, the news was that the Sultan had ordered all to leave the city, now convinced of a conspiracy by his enemies and allies both, and refusing to let any take the city if he could not keep it. 

“What does that mean?” he asked Qasim, who was halfway through preparing to leave. 

“He’s going to set the city on _fire_ ,” he said, rushing around getting his wealth put away so he would be well away from the city before a fire could be started. 

“What about the Syrian forces? They should arrive before—”

Qasim looked disbelieving. “They are meant to arrive in a day, but it will not _matter_ if the city has burned down before they arrive! Do you think any of us expected this? His closest ministers are dead or traitors, and he doesn’t trust that his allies are not tied to the Franks. And now he is going to burn the place down.” 

There was no time to be angry, at himself or at Qasim. He let him get on with his packing, and took to the city center. 

The Sultan had ordered everyone to leave before the fires were begun, but that did not mean everyone was leaving, or even _could_. Money held them back, or property, or children, or illness, or their business—or perhaps they simply did not believe that the man truly intended to set fire to his capital. Even if everyone _had_ left, Yusuf could not begin to imagine the loss that would come after, but there must be tens of thousands of people with little intention to evacuate. And even if they _did_ , where would they go? 

He steeled himself and made for what passed for the court in the city. The guards through the city, those involved in administration or familiar with the Sultan in any way, had of course been the first ones to leave; it was almost _easy_ to sneak in. The whole unit was all but deserted, and those that _were_ here did not have the heart to stop Yusuf. He ignored them as long as they let him pass, and knocked out the ones who did not, until he found a great meeting hall strewn with dozens of hastily copied maps of the city, all marked with what looked at first sight like hundreds of places.

Perhaps another time he would have stopped and asked someone what these meant; as was, everything was too urgent. He went to the first location, only two streets away from the court, and found nothing; the second, and nothing, the third—here there was a guard, carefully placing pots in a garden.

He backed away as he saw Yusuf, eyes wide and flickering to the pots. “What is that?” Yusuf asked, keeping his sword pointed at the man’s neck.

“Roman fire,” the man explained. “We have to set them around the city, there are thousands—”

 _Thousands_. Yusuf touched the tip of the sword to the man’s neck. “Where are they kept?”

“Please, any flame or crash will set them off—,” the guard began, then silenced abruptly as Yusuf veered him away from the pots, swordpoint digging into his neck. 

“ _Where_ are they kept?”

He left him unconscious, so he could escape or warn the others or do what he wished, but took his map with him, along with the pots. It was a paltry hope that they would cease just because they did not know what to do, but he could try. For the moment, he went to the barracks, where the roman fire was being delivered and stored. 

Hundreds of pots sat in the open. More were, supposedly, to arrive. A single spark of flame here would destroy part of the city on its own; Yusuf could not begin to imagine what effect these thousands would do to the rest. Fustat was a city of towers and gardens, of hundreds of thousands of people, of the best markets he had ever seen—towers that would collapse, gardens that would add to the flame, markets of glassware that would flow molten on the streets.

 _You cannot know the consequences of this_ , he heard in Nicolò’s voice, and felt the pain of it in his chest like he had inhaled smoke, even with no fire yet. It was worse, perhaps, because he could see it—because he _had_ seen it. A city destroyed; a fire so large that smoke darkened the sky for miles in all directions; an army of Franks; a frantic crowd escaping slaughter turned to a slow trickle of survivors who had nowhere to go.

How much of this was his responsibility, as they pushed the Sultan to increasing paranoia? How much could have been avoided, had the man he killed led a coup? Or perhaps if the physician had made that alliance, prolonging any possibility of battle, perhaps till after there was a new Sultan? 

Had he helped, or made everything worse, or done nothing at all?

One of the men on distribution duty arrived, and shouted when he saw Yusuf. “Who are you?”

Yusuf offered his hands, showing he had no weapons out, sword still tucked away. “Look,” he began. “You don’t have to do this. This is your city, yes? Leave the pots here, do not accept more—the Sultan cannot force this. Even if the city falls, it need not burn, not like this.” The man was not interested in listening. He pulled his blade out, and Yusuf took several steps away, looking at the pots, then at the guard; it was far too dangerous to fight here. “Don’t—you don’t want to risk these exploding _here_!”

“Then _leave_ ,” the man said. Yusuf shook his head.

“I can’t do that.” 

The man lunged, but Yusuf was faster, and perhaps more dedicated—he ignored the worst of the pain as the man’s sword met his arm, and buried a dagger in his chest, letting him drop to the ground. The guard’s eyes widened as Yusuf pulled the sword from his arm, and the wound healed, before he turned again to the pots.

They were safe as long as nothing ignited around them, yes, but how was he to prevent the other guards from placing them where they were to be placed?

Footsteps. Yusuf turned, sword out, only to come face to face with—

“Nicolò,” he whispered, eyes wide. 

Nicolò stopped midstep, eyes flying from Yusuf to the dying guard to the pots, before his gaze lost its sharpness. “You’re trying to stop it.”

Yusuf nodded. “Yes. Yes.” He looked back at the pots. “But you were right. This is—”

“You could not have known,” Nicolò cut in, shaking his head. Yusuf swallowed, feeling the tightness of guilt and dismay in his chest. “I am sorry, I did not—I knew you would be here, trying to help. Stop this from happening. I was angry because you did not—” 

Nicolò cut off abruptly as several more men arrived. “Keep them away from the pots,” he said, and Nicolò nodded. Yusuf raised his sword, but he could not help it. “You don’t have to do this,” he told the man coming toward him; but it was much the same as the other—he didn’t want to listen. There was no assuaging the guilt, even as he cut him down, even as he turned to help Nicolò with the other two.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Yusuf said in a rush, when they were on the ground, grabbing Nicolò’s hand. He was covered in blood, and looked unhappy, but his frown eased when he turned to Yusuf. “I was mistaken, I didn’t—” He swallowed, and shook his head, as more men appeared in the distance, all likely helping to see a corpse made of their own city. _The Ghost of Fustat_. Had Yusuf really been so jealous of sharing a simple title, mere weeks ago? “We can talk later,” he said. “For now—”

“I’ll hold them off,” Nicolò said, drawing his sword. Yusuf looked at the dead men on the floor, and nodded.

“I’ll see to the rest, get any of the pots back here.” If Nicolò was here, stopping them from taking the others away, and Yusuf was checking on the other locations—there was still far too much of the city to cover, but _perhaps_ , just perhaps... He exhaled. “And then—we can stop more of them arriving. We’ll do what we can.”

Nicolò nodded, looking shaky. But then—“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, as Yusuf began to leave. “The Ghost has never failed, has he?”

He smiled, despite himself. Perhaps—perhaps it would have been better if he _had_ failed, once or twice. But Yusuf knew what Nicolò meant. 

“No,” he said. “And we won’t start now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are!!! 
> 
> Tons of thanks to the Old Guard Big Bang 2021 organisers, who have done fantastic getting us this far, and also to my artist @eagle--two on tumblr ([link to post](https://eagle--two.tumblr.com/post/643234041298075648/art-for-a-ghost-by-any-other-name)! Please send ALL the love!!!), who's just done such a fantastic job I literally teared up when I saw the works—and also to you, for reading this! If you liked it, I would really really appreciate a kudos or a comment below! 
> 
> The real historical event in question is the [burning of Fustat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fustat), which sounds perfectly horrific, and fun fact was actually going to be one of the earliest scenes in the fic, and then I made it not happen. Funny how these things work out, I say, as if I'm not the writer.
> 
> And also I'm at @nicolos on tumblr, so pls hit me up! Let's talk TOG!


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